Deus ex Machina
by lye tea
Summary: Gin is dead and holds a conversation with god. Gin-centric


**Warning: **Sort of spoilery up to Chapter 414. Black humour, satire, existential WTF, bad writing, stupid jokes, BREAKING THE FOURTH WALL.

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**Deus ex Machina**

Well, he was dead.

Aizen killed him, and that's that. Don't grovel or groan over the details; it's only cute when Rukia or some other midget does it. Besides, he's addled in the head already enough to brew a tempest.

It's unfortunate, grievous for his sycophantic, obnoxious fans (of which he still retained quite a few, thank you). It's almost blasphemous, he would say. And it happened at the most inconvenient moment, just when he was finally figuring out the degree of his apathetic sadism.

At the junction between an ants-infested pocket watch and three ladies dancing to primavera (someone was obviously drugged while attempting imagery), he stopped to rest. He'd been wandering the no-man, man-made land for a thousand years (condensed into one). And he was dying from the sweltering heat—metaphorically speaking.

Glancing around for some water (no such luck), Gin sank down into Styrofoam sand. To cheer himself up, he made a list of why it was good to be dead.

No more Aizen (damn that man was infuriating, plus he always hogged the bathroom). No more Tousen (an even bigger, aggravating, self-righteous bastard). But being dead also meant he couldn't arbitrarily incite a massacre. And genocides really were the best for giggles.

"It's about time you got here. Care for a drink?"

Gin looked up. "Who're you?"

Something with three antlers and a horn appeared and calmly said, "Oh, no one in particular, just well, god. But I hate to boast unnecessarily. By the by, want to see a nifty trick?"

"Sure."

"I'll part the seas."

"There's no water."

"Don't be a sceptic. I'll create the seas first. Let there be an expanse between the waters!"

And so, god performed its magical phenomenon. It wagged its little pinky and divided the waves. Gin pretended to be impressed.

"You're god, right?" asked Gin, after the melodramatics and initial proagon.

God replied, "Yes, of course I am. Didn't you see that just now?"

"No, not really. 'S hard to see when your eyes are constantly in slits."

God was pissed. It frowned and stroked its purple beard (grew it a moment ago) and a sparkle crept into its polka-dotted eyes. "I got it. To prove to you that I'm god, I'll answer any three questions you have."

"That doesn't prove your god. Could be you're just really good at guessing."

"Three wishes, then?"

Gin considered this. He smiled slyly and agreed. First wish—

"But before I do that," god interrupted (god was turning out to be rather annoying), "What is the sound of one hand clapping?"

"Don't know. Who the hell cares?"

God pouted and shrivelled up, perching itself next to mortal-toy. It was sad. Gin was mean. Gin wasn't a nice boy. God grudgingly grumbled, "Fine. Aren't you curious about anything though? I _am_ omniscient. It's not every day someone has the chance to converse with god."

"Assuming you are god and not a figment of my imagination."

"Or perhaps you are a figment of my imagination."

Gin shrugged.

"Fire and brimstone!" god screeched and whimpered, "You've caught the Cartesian loophole to my infallible logic."

"Suits me either way, just shows that I do exist. Now, about my wishes."

"Wait, I already know your wishes since," god swelled and enlarged its puny chest, grinned and announced, "I possess infinite infinity, self-causation, etc."

"I thought you didn't like to brag."

"That's not bragging. That's just stating the facts. Anyway, before I grant them, I have some questions for you."

"Shoot."

"Pun intended?"

"Yeah, sure, whatever."

God cleared its throat—paused for self-aggrandized histrionic effect—and commenced his Petrarchan sonnet soliloquy:

"For the sake of lesser beings and creatures,  
I shall feign ignorance, distil my wisdom, and ask,  
An assortment of questions on your qualifying features.  
To start, why did you connive and shrive and don that mask,  
While all the while you were concocting a ruse and coup?  
What was the grand purpose (certainly, you are curious)?  
Ingenious trifle or baffling crux, answer me thorough and through!  
Don't make me furious, no facetious, not talk spurious!  
You can't be that maniacal, that farcical—oh woe is he,  
Who dared to imagine, courage unbound, whom in you,  
(Conceived nihilism and absurdist, Sophocles sophistry),  
On spur of moment, decided and drew and blew breath into.  
And yet, here you walk, an ambiguity in a gem, incontestable bad,  
So tell the truth (shall set you free) or admit you're a passing fad."

God inhaled voids and turquoise holes. It huffed and puffed. There was a method to its grandiose madness, why it rarely spoke coherently or even audibly. It preferred to work in mysterious ways (was easily tired and ran short of breath). A dash of miracles here and a splash of sacrifices there, and it had the world worshiping it. God was a clever, clever old geezer who barely raised a finger.

"Basically," Gin translated for the less literary-nonsensically endowed members of their invisible audience, "you're asking why I did the things I did."

God nodded. Please continue in correct form.

"No reason. It was for fun."

"What about that girl?"

"Oh, Rangiku? A coincidence. However the events are perceived ain't my problem."

"Then you weren't planning to usurp Aizen?"

"Yes, no, maybe so, wouldn't you like to know?"

"In the end, you died for nothing."

"Actually, god, you killed me. So you tell me why I died."

God clasped its hands together and danced a jig. It could respond directly (rather not) or do what it's infamous for. It gathered force and delight (attention) and expelled, "Deus ex machina!"

In a whiteout, Gin woke up from his hallucinating pass-out. Aizen hovered overhead, sneering like the average solid, dependable megalomaniac after an awful haircut.

He had a killer migraine, and his clothes were soaked and cold. Wincing in pain, Gin sat up and cursed god's name.


End file.
